Just Like Paris and Other Stories
by Leah The Mermaid
Summary: "Continuing his investigation with no avail, Clint was seriously considering asking Fury to let him at the security cameras when he heard a sound almost totally foreign to his ears. It was pretty and tinkling, like a marimba riff, and so nearly muted that he strained his ears for a direction in which he could be closer." Pre-movie. Now adding more Avengers randomness!
1. Just Like Paris

"Natasha Romanov!" Clint called, poking around in the hallways. "Nat, you can't hide from me forever. Oh, this is _very_ mature." He rolled his eyes and continued to pop his head into rooms, searching for his partner. _She owes me twenty; I won that fight fair and square. Or I would have won; that trick with the punching bag was against the rules. _

Continuing his investigation with no avail, Clint was seriously considering asking Fury to let him at the security cameras when he heard a sound almost totally foreign to his ears. It was pretty and tinkling, like a marimba riff, and so nearly muted that he strained his ears for a direction in which he could be closer.

The last and only time he had heard this music of sorts was on a mission in Paris, after a fairly average Wednesday of interrogations, escapes, and a little mass destruction with Natasha. Clint couldn't even remember what he had said that had caused the sound to escape Nat's lips for a precious few seconds. Now, two years later, the memory resurfaced. Because the earth stopped spinning, the clouds paused to stare, up was down and down was up and the Black Widow was laughing.

Clint followed the sound hungrily, as though deprived and searching for sustenance. His sharp ears eventually dragged him to a random empty meeting room. What he saw made him pull back quickly so that only his eyes protruded from the doorframe, not wanting to disturb the unexpected magic he was witnessing.

Natasha stood alone, a rare non-sarcastic grin tickled across her face. Plans of fleeing long forgotten, she held a small bag of dried fruit in one hand. She was using the other hand to toss the pieces to impossible heights, catching them in her perfect teeth with no effort. One particularly impressive save and the spy outside the door was rewarded with a live performance of her beautiful laugh.

_Is that my Nat? _Clint thought with bewilderment, though not necessarily displeasure. _I almost forgot she _could _laugh. _He watched silently for what seemed like hours and yet was far too short when the bag was empty. Just when he thought he was about to sneak away unnoticed, Natasha's voice slipped smoothly after him,

"Enjoy the show, Barton?"

Clint retraced his steps back into the room, a sparse smile making him look a little like a handsome, mildly pleased bulldog. "I like it when you laugh. It doesn't happen nearly often enough for my taste,"

Natasha looked surprised; her hands fell from their indignant position on her hips. She strolled swiftly up to Clint, their eyes piercing each other's, until there was hardly and inch of distance between their lips. When she whispered to him, her breath was as cold and goose bump-inducing as her demeanor.

"Barton?"

"Yes, Agent Romanov?"

"Give me a reason to laugh. Please. Just like Paris." The air stilled, and so did time, it seemed. Clint closed his eyes and ran his hands up and down her arms softly.

"Natasha?"

"Yes?" her eyelids were lowering now too, and she tilted her head slightly. Clint pulled her close, past his lips until he was whispering almost inaudibly into her fiery hair.

"You still owe me twenty."


	2. A Little More Sense

**I know, I know. OH-MY-GOSH-SHE'S-CONTINUING-BUT-SHE'S-GONNA-SCREW-IT-UP-WITH-A-MARY-SUE! Not my intention, I assure you. Tillie exists purely in this oneshot, and she is solely used to represent Steve giving the 21st century a chance. Hope you like it, and feel free to offer any suggestions/comments! :)**

* * *

Steve absentmindedly toyed with a sugar packet at his outdoor café table and tried to take in the world around him. No matter which way he turned his head or squinted his eyes, there was always something new and flashy that kept him from believing that this was really the same earth he had closed his eyes to seventy years ago. Cell phones, tablets, motorcycles, let alone the Internet. This was not a welcoming world to be thrust into. The gently "old fashioned" beauty of the faces of girls he had once chased was nowhere, replaced by sharp, unhealthy-looking models that scowled at him in posters or stressed-looking frown lines that sat alone with their laptops.

Like the frazzled young woman that spun herself in circles with a gigantic map scarcely twenty feet from him. Not a day older than seventeen or eighteen, her eyebrows spasmed in confusion under her big, dorky glasses that magnified already awkwardly large hazel eyes. Steve watched her flip the map several times and brush her long auburn hair impatiently away from her face. She eventually crumpled up the paper and chucked it into a nearby trash, muttering something that sounded like "I curse you and those who inhabit your foul-smelling realms, freakin' over-complicated rat hole!"

"Excuse me, ma'am. Can I help you find someplace?" asked Steve, unable to watch this battle any longer and walking over.

The girl turned pink. "Oh, did you hear my little rant? Sorry, I read a LOT of fantasy novels on my flight. And thank you, sir, but I'm in no rush to be anywhere. Just thought I'd try to make sense of the Big Apple before I actually had to find my way to work. Kind of a huge change from Middle-of-Nowhere-ville, Michigan."

"I take it you haven't been especially successful. I'm Steve, by the way." He offered his hand to shake, and she took it.

"Tillie."

"Would you like to sit down, Tillie?" Steve pulled out the chair opposite his at the table.

"I'd love to." She slumped down into the seat and stared at Steve for a second, but didn't say anything. Maybe something clicked vaguely in her mind.

"So you said you came here for work? That's me, too." said Steve.

"I was cast as Peter in a remake of the original theatrical production of Peter Pan. You?"

"Wow, what a role. I've always really loved that play." Steve smiled, happy to recognize _something. _"I'm…I suppose you could say I'm here for some volunteer work."

Tillie nodded. "So you don't usually live here? I guess I can safely say, then, that I kind of can't stand this city. It's so loud, and flashy, and unnecessarily complex. My friends all give me crap about it, but I'm hopeless with places like this; I'm an old soul, I suppose. I couldn't even work my GPS, hence the map." She rolled her eyes at herself.

"Don't feel bad. Hey, I'm still figuring out how the phone cords are invisible." Steve joked. Although, a month ago it wouldn't have been a joke.

"I can't even understand why my magic, shiny typewriter needs 'Wi-Fi,'" laughed Tillie, clearly enjoying herself now. They continued this banter long past a time when there was nothing left to say.

"That's so sad," Tillie whispered after a pause.

"What?"

"That guy and his son are out to lunch over there. But they're both on their phones!"

Steve saw where Tillie was discreetly nodding towards. "Tell me, Tillie, am I the only one who remembers a time when Google was a number? Or one didn't need fancy type for someone to see what their face looked like while talking?"

"Good God, Steve, I hope not,"

Another silence. Although, Steve realized, there could be no such thing in an era so very deafening.

"I should probably go. Time stops for no woman, and I have a number of meaningless things to do, whether I like it or not. It was really nice meeting you, Steve." Tillie finally sighed. She picked up her satchel-like backpack and stood.

"And you. I should like to see you around sometime."

"A tragedy worthy of the Bard himself that NYC's population is over eight million. Odds are slim. But thanks for the chat, anyway."

"Can I walk you anywhere? This is New York." Steve offered. _Rogers, this isn't the forties. She can walk just fine, _he realized right after.

"That's okay, I'll manage. Thanks for the offer, though. Not too many guys man enough to do that. Bye."

"Goodbye." As Tillie walked farther and farther away, Steve watched her without really seeing her. _So this is planet Earth now. Bonding time over cellular phones and any semblance of sanity is snatched away by pointless tasks. The world is far too crazy for my taste. _

Somehow his glazed-over eyes saw Tillie, distant now, lean over and hand what looked like quite a bit of money to a homeless woman.

_Or maybe, just maybe, there's a little more sense than I give this century credit for…_


	3. Assassins Don't Do Surprise Parties

**You have been forewarned: this was based on a short, ridiculous and goofy daydream and so will be ridiculously short and goofy :). Hope you like it anyway, my few but treasured readers! **

Natasha twitched her head from side to side, trying frantically to shake the images in her head so as to take in her surroundings in full clarity. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling the words coming out of Clint's mouth as he pinned her to the couch and held her wrists tight. The entire world blurred.

She had been dragging her feet back to her shabby apartment after a ludicrously long day. Clint had "called in sick," leaving her to clean up the mess of their last mission. At last she kicked open the peeling door, grabbed for the light switch...and whipped out a gun as all Hades broke loose. Because her dwelling was filled with people.

Back in the present, Natasha thrashed against her partner's hold. God, if only she hadn't told him about that pressure point just above her collarbone.

"It-is-a-frickin-SURPRISE PARTY!" Clint yelled over Natasha's slew of Russian swearing, shoving her harder into the couch to prevent her from injuring anyone else. He was clutching a bullet-grazed elbow with the hand that wasn't gripping her. "God, Nat, you shot me!"

Natasha's only response was a frenzied gnawing on his captor fingers. Carefully prying her teeth off his phalanges, Clint rolled his eyes.

"Birthday! It's your birthday! Birthdaaaaaay?" he tried. His fingers snapped several times in front of her face. She blinked hard, shaking her head to clear it. Just in case, Clint didn't let go until she spoke in her usual, sane voice.

"You know I don't like surprises, Barton."

"You don't say!" The assassins detached themselves and glared sulkily at each other.

Every other party guest (a sparse assortment of agents Natasha tolerated) had fled after Clint had ordered them to get out. Sometimes Nat was his mess to clean up.

"I hope you're happy, Birthday Girl. Your rabid dog attack scared away all your partygoers."

"I've never been much of a people person anyway," Natasha replied.

"Wonder why..."

"Stuff it."

Natasha eyed Clint, wondering why he was still there. She was back, she was fine, and flashbacks weren't so uncommon anyway. But he lingered still, albeit rubbing his elbow with a pout.

"Did I actually shoot you?" Natasha asked.

"Nah, but A for effort," answered Clint sarcastically. Then, accepting this was as close as he was going to get to an apology from his partner, added, "It's fine, I swear. Just a graze. You weren't yourself."

"And WHOSE fault is that, Big Bird?"

"Right. My bad."

They stood without speaking for a few minutes, taking in the half-trashed apartment with some amusement.

"Well," said Clint finally, "When everyone ran, they kind of left us the cake...?"

"Yeah," Natasha agreed, with a nonchalant shrug, "Let's eat cake."


End file.
